At night, it is like fire
spreading beneath us.
This vast city
aflame, and the plane
groaning.
The city is more beautiful
from the sky at night.
At noon, it looks like
a worn-out garage,
a thing in the middle
of swamp country.
All the buildings are worn-out,
rusted to the bone
of steel, twisted
to make way so life
can go on.
Everything is bent and broken
along the hilltops.
I touch air to see if air
is still there.
The touchdown,
and we appear all worn-out,
too, like the city, broken.
All the birds
moved out long ago.
The trees too.
(From PRIVATE 36 – AFRIKA, p. 21)
